Gabriel
“s**t,” Raquel grumbles, rubbing circles against her temple like she’s trying to crack a combination safe. “s**t, s**t, shit.”
We’re back at the hotel. She’s set up a little workstation for herself, and by little, I mean she’s claimed the whole lounge area of our suite for herself. Raquel sits cross-legged on the floor, leaning over the glass coffee table that hosts at least five different cups of coffee —with cream and sugar, of course— a copy of the Van Straus property blueprint, and my laptop conducting several Google searches all at once. Her space is chaotic and messy, yet she looks right at home.
“What’s wrong?” I ask her. I’m seated on the edge of my bed, doing my best to keep my anxious knee from bouncing.
“Van Straus’ place is a damn fortress.”
“I mean, it was a medie
